


All Mine (You Have to Be)

by Lauralot



Category: Captain America (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Abuse, Asexual Character, Blood, Blow Jobs, Dehumanization, F/M, HYDRA Trash Party, Hand Jobs, Intercrural Sex, M/M, No Lube, Obsession, Possessive Behavior, Psychological Horror, Sexual Coercion
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-09-05
Updated: 2014-09-05
Packaged: 2018-02-16 05:25:41
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,310
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2257455
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lauralot/pseuds/Lauralot
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>HYDRA taught the Winter Soldier many lessons.  Learning to share was not one of them.</p>
            </blockquote>





	All Mine (You Have to Be)

**Author's Note:**

> Written for [this prompt](http://hydratrashmeme.dreamwidth.org/587.html?thread=446795#cmt446795) on the HYDRA Trash Meme: _The Winter Soldier is assigned a fuck buddy to help avoid distractions and relieve tension. The only issue being that the Soldier assumes this person now belongs to him._
> 
> _It might start out harmless enough, or even kind of cute: protecting the person during missions, dragging them away from the other team members like "no you have to come sit here by my rifle, this is where my stuff goes." But the Soldier turns out to be incredibly and violently possessive of what few belongings he has, and quickly devolves into threatening/attacking anyone who approaches his partner, and threatening/attacking said partner if they try to leave or spend time with anyone else. And the Soldier has no concept of consent; no one ever asks if he wants it, why would it occur to him to obtain it?_
> 
> _It doesn't help matters at all if this dynamic starts to affect mission performances. Would HYDRA try to help resolve the situation or just dispose of the person who compromised the asset's efficiency?_

The technicians are either unable or unwilling to chemically castrate the asset.

Rumlow isn’t sure if it’s even possible; the Soldier’s body could well burn through anything they supply too rapidly for it to be cost-effective, and that’s assuming there exists a drug that can quell the Soldier’s enhanced anatomy. Maybe there is, maybe there isn’t. Maybe it’s been tested and rejected, or maybe the asset’s handlers never tried. All Rumlow knows is that sometimes the Soldier wakes or returns from a fight swollen and aching, and for all he’s programmed to remember from wipe to wipe, they never let him keep that. 

It’s an annoyance. It’s a distraction, both for the Soldier himself and the rest of the team, who start snickering and whispering whenever the asset’s aroused, as if they’ve never dealt with adrenaline-induced hard-ons of their own. Usually, Rumlow orders everyone, Soldier included, to ignore the issue until time resolves it. Usually, that that works. 

On their last mission, it didn’t, and Rumlow had been forced to take matters into his own hands. Figuratively. He wasn’t getting paid to teach the Soldier to jack himself off, but a full hour of their active time in the field had been devoted to just that. 

He’d requested upon return to base that something be done. The something Rumlow’d been expecting was Depo-Provera or an alteration to the asset’s programming that would let him remember how to bring himself off. Some portable ice packs for missions, if nothing else. 

He hadn’t been expecting _this._

“I need a volunteer,” Rumlow tells the assembled STRIKE team, “to act as a specialized, situational field handler for the asset. You’d still be able to perform your regular duties, but if the mission calls for it, you’d act as an outlet for the asset’s sexual tension.” 

“Like a fuck buddy?” Rollins asks. He’s the only one who isn’t staring too dumbly to respond. 

“No. Like a specialized, situational field handler.” 

“Who gets the asset off.” Anders grins. “Sounds like a fuck buddy to me.” 

“Is that your way of volunteering?” Rumlow asks. 

“I’ve got a boyfriend, sir.” Anders reclines in her chair, her smile polite but still teeming with _hell no._

“I’m not asking you to marry him, I’m asking you to relieve tension.” And God knows Rumlow would have volunteered himself if only to avoid having this conversation but no, apparently the powers that be don’t want to confuse the Soldier by having his CO submit to him. 

“In the interests of my continued survival, I must respectfully decline, sir.” 

Rumlow sighs, nods, and turns his attention to the next team member at the table. “Murphy?” 

“ _Fuck_ no. I’m not getting my dick bit off.” 

“Your dick wouldn’t be in his mouth.” Rumlow grits his teeth. “You’d be getting _him_ off. You know how that works, right? You need me to draw up diagrams?” 

“Please do,” Anders says and the room dissolves into laughter. 

“I’ll do it.” Rollins’s words are soft and initially buried by Anders’s loud request for someone get the commander a pen and paper, and he speaks again. “I’ll do it.” 

“You’re sure?” Rumlow asks. The rest of the team turns to Rollins, their expressions wide-eyed and malleable, like they can’t decide whether to laugh or pay their respects. 

Rollins shrugs. He doesn’t look excited, but he doesn’t look as if he’s in fear of his life either. “What the hell. There’re worse ways to go if he kills me. How bad can it be?” 

*

The Soldier’s body is not his own. 

It is HYDRA’s. He is HYDRA’s. He sleeps at HYDRA’s command and wakes upon their order. It doesn’t matter if he feels fatigue when HYDRA needs him conscious. It doesn’t matter if he feels thirst or hunger between the meals they provide. It is not his body and he will not allow its sensations to goad him into acting against his handlers’ wishes. He will not be bad. 

But he’s being bad now. 

The Soldier paces the floor of the holding room. There is to be a mission, but the commander has not come to collect him yet. He is being bad and maybe he will never go on the mission. Maybe he will be decommissioned. He would deserve it for misbehaving. The nails of his right hand dig into the skin of his palm and his left hand tugs on his hair. Pain is corrective but no order comes from the pains he inflicts; his body is still disobeying him. 

The Soldier woke from the tank with the taste of iron on his tongue, the vision of charcoal smudges on his fingers, and a throbbing ache between his legs. The first two sensations have faded like sunlight at the horizon, but the third remains, visible and shameful and _bad._

A tray lies neglected on the floor: a technician brought food but the Soldier had only snarled. He will not allow his body sustenance until it behaves. Every step he takes drags his pants against his flesh and his breath keeps catching in this throat, but he cannot be still. His body is taut and itching and the pressure is agony but it feels so absurdly essential. He is fevered and erratic and perhaps he will be put down. 

Perhaps he is already dying. 

The door opens and the Soldier whirls around, growling before he can contain himself, slave to his body’s whims for the second time today. He expects the Secretary or the commander, expects punishment, but instead there is a man with a scarred face. 

There is a hazy recollection like looking through a smoky room, and the Soldier believes he has seen this man before. But then he tugs hard on his hair again, because it is not a weapon’s place to remember or have beliefs. The scarred man is not his superior and his eyes are between the Soldier’s legs and the Soldier’s skin is burning hot even though that has not been ordered either. He is overwhelmed and he can’t keep from growling. “Get out.” 

The scarred man’s fear is thick in the air, almost palpable, but he smiles like the commander or the Secretary would and that stays the Soldier’s hand from clasping around his throat. “Need a hand?” he asks and then seems to think better of his words, shaking his head with a cringe and a laugh. 

It’s the laugh that makes the Soldier’s teeth clench. His blood is hot again, his pulse hammering between his legs. “Get out,” he repeats. There is still a rasp in his voice but it’s different than before and he can’t focus enough to determine what’s changed. 

“Can’t, sorry.” The scarred man is still smiling but there’s something else, something like an apology. But no one apologizes to a weapon. “I’ve been, uh, been assigned to…assist you, see.” 

“Assist?” The pressure has increased and the word is too large for his mind to process. He is a weapon, an asset. People are not subordinate to weapons. And the scarred man is a person, isn’t he? 

The man crosses to the bench where the Soldier had been sitting before the pressure became too much to ignore and lowers himself. He beckons and even though the scarred man is possibly beneath him, the Soldier takes a hesitant step forward, wanting to be good. His throat is dry. 

“Yeah, assist.” There’s a light in the scarred man’s stare as the Soldier shuffles forward, gait awkward, as though he knows something the Soldier doesn’t. People usually do. “Restore you to…full functioning. You’d like that, right? You want to feel better?” 

“Assist,” the Soldier repeats. His mind is like a stalling engine. A person—this person—exists to assist him. To service him. This person is his, to offer aid. The Soldier is standing over him now and the scarred man’s fear is almost tangible and the pressure is growing, his pulse increasing in rate and volume. 

“Yeah. Here, turn around.” 

The Soldier’s thoughts have gone to static and he turns without questioning why a subordinate is giving orders. 

“Good. Great. Sit down.” 

The Soldier begins to move to one side—the shift in his stance drags his flesh against the cloth of his pants again and he nearly loses balance—because surely the man cannot mean to sit on top of him, but there is a hand barely there at his hip, corrective and guiding him back, and the Soldier melts into his lap, every muscle tensed but unresponsive, paralyzed. 

“Good boy.” His hand is still on the Soldier’s hip, his legs warm and broad beneath the Soldier’s. “See? No need to dismember me or anything, right?” 

The Soldier has not been ordered to dismember and he would not choose such a messy and tiring manner of execution without being commanded. He opens his mouth to say as much but the scarred man’s other hand is stroking at the tight fabric of the Soldier’s pants and he cannot remember how to speak. 

“You like that?” the man asks, and his voice is both loud and far away, as if the Soldier is hearing it through a tunnel. He can hear his own breaths, ragged and “ _ah ah ah_ ” through the same distorted filter. The Soldier doesn’t know what it means to like, but his body wants, _needs_ more. He hasn’t been ordered to need but the scarred man is here to service him and his hips push up into the man’s warm hand before he can think to still them. 

“Hmm?” There is laughter in the scarred man’s voice and his hand is still rubbing. “How does that feel?” 

It feels…

Like a wipe that doesn’t _hurt_. The heart rate, the physical stress, the muscle contractions rippling through him involuntarily. His mind is buzzing and his vision is going and it’s like the chair but it doesn’t hurt. And it doesn’t just _not_ hurt. It’s a repair, a necessity. It’s all important. 

The hand stills, awaiting an answer, and the Soldier forces out “ _electricity_ ” but he says it in Russian. 

“English, buddy,” the man chides, but metal fingers clamp down on his wrist and force his hand back against the Soldier’s swollen flesh. He can speak after he is serviced. He is in charge and this takes precedence. 

Instead of stroking, the man tugs on the Soldier’s zipper. Before he can apply pressure and pain to the wrist he holds to provide a lesson, the scarred man is freeing the Soldier from his pants, pulling. The Soldier’s own hand spasms and falls free, clenching at the air as his hips buck into the man’s grip. His body cannot be still and the hand not between his legs moves from his hip to wrap around his waist, holding tight like restraints for the chair. The scarred man leans forward to watch his ministrations, his hair brushing against the Soldier’s throat, and the gentle touch combined with the friction below, horrible and wonderful, does it. 

The Soldier’s body spasms violently as if something has ruptured. If this were the chair, he would be unconscious, but it isn’t. It isn’t pain, but it shatters him and the Soldier cries out, lurching forward before slumping back into the man’s broad chest. His breathing is shallow, vision fuzzy, and suddenly the world is too big and loud and bright around him. 

“There you go,” the man says. He is still holding, keeping the Soldier’s boneless body from collapsing onto the floor. “Feeling better?” 

The Soldier tries to say yes, but what comes out is a shaking, prolonged whimper. 

“Good.” The scarred man’s voice is laughing again. That seems typical. “Here.” He is placing the Soldier back into his pants and it hurts but it doesn’t and it’s over before the Soldier’s throat can tense enough to whimper again. “Now let’s see if you can get up, all right? There’s a mission briefing waiting.” 

The Soldier wants to laugh himself because this man is his yet seems to think he can give orders, but he doesn’t know how to laugh and even if he did, it’s currently beyond him.

*

The Soldier follows close behind Rollins like a sated, breathless little duckling. When Rollins decides to lead him to the showers before the briefing, the asset doesn’t even question him and there’s a rush of power in that, as much as when his hand was wrapped around the asset’s cock. The Soldier strips readily enough—Rollins can’t help but chuckle to himself at that—but he stands under the water like he has no clue what to do, and maybe he doesn’t. There’s always a technician or two with him in the showers. 

“Here.” He shucks off his own clothing, joining the Soldier under the water. There’ll be even more snickers when they get to the meeting room now, elbows to his ribs and raised eyebrows, but just like in the holding cell, it’s easier to take a hands-on approach than it is to try and talk the Soldier through it. The Soldier goes soft and pliant under Rollins’s touch, the tension from before melted out of his body. 

It’s funny: Rollins would never have thought of the Soldier as a sexual being if not for his little habit of getting excited on missions, if not for the last time they were out in the field and Rollins had to overhear an hour of Rumlow’s increasingly frustrated instructions. _No, move your hand like_ this, _no, hold tighter than that._ Between the damage of the ice and the wipes, Rollins would have guessed the Soldier wasn’t capable of arousal. Hell, he wouldn’t have put it past HYDRA to geld the asset to help keep him docile. 

Rollins finds himself glad that they didn’t. He can take or leave sex, generally—it feels great and intimate but so does a kiss and people don’t get so worked up about those—but there’s an undeniable thrill in watching something as powerful as the Soldier fall apart in his hands. A rush in giving the Soldier the first pleasant touch he can remember. And it’s a lot better listening to the sounds he makes with a hand on his dick than the ones he makes in the chair. It’s the most bizarre work assignment ever, but it’s hardly unbearable. 

Once the ribbing is out of the way, the briefing and the mission go off without a hitch. The Soldier sits beside Rollins on the transport there and back, looking at Rollins like he’s made of sunshine while the other agents giggle, but his _malfunction_ doesn’t return and he lets himself be led to the chair without a fuss, and Rollins has had worse days. 

The next time the asset is thawed and reintroduced to his commander and STRIKE team, his eyes linger on Rollins, hesitant, as if they’re acquaintances at a party and the asset can’t place his name. Murphy snorts—“Must have made an impression”—but the Soldier ignores him, gaze darting between Rumlow and Rollins like a kid asking for permission to go play. 

“Mine?” he asks softly, and Rollins has never heard Rumlow laugh that hard. 

“Yours,” he agrees once he’s breathing again, clapping his hand on the asset’s shoulder as he smirks at Rollins. “If you’re good. Come on, the van’s waiting.” 

The Soldier has one specific target on the mission, but any of that target’s associates are considered acceptable losses. Generally the Soldier makes it through a mission with as few casualties as possible unless things go to hell, but bodies are dropping around Rollins all throughout this fight. It isn’t until afterward when Anders complains that she’d have volunteered to jack off the asset if she’d known she’d get a bodyguard out of the deal that Rollins sits back and looks at the corpses. All the Soldier’s kills, save for target, are the people who’d posed a threat to Rollins. 

Well, there’s an unexpected benefit. He can’t help but grin. 

His hands are a little scraped up, so on the transport back Rollins sits beside Murphy, who’s carrying the first aid kit and attending to a gash across his own eyebrow. But there’s a tug on his sleeve and Rollins looks up to find the Soldier looming over him, dragging him off of the bench. He is steered to the far end of the van, where the Soldier’s rifle is resting, holding his place. 

“This is where your stuff goes?” Rollins asks, smirking. 

The Soldier doesn’t answer. He pushes Rollins until he sits and then the Soldier takes his own seat, cleaning and checking the rifle for damage as he does after every mission that uses it. He sets the weapon to the side and grabs Rollins’s hands, frowning down at the scratches. He bolts upright, fast enough to make Rollins tense. “I’m all right—”

Murphy isn’t done with the first aid kit but the Soldier takes it anyway and no one’s stupid enough to complain. He nearly upends the bottle of disinfectant over Rollins’s hands and he also feels it necessary to wrap the skin, from the wrists to the fingertips, in gauze. 

“He’s like a mama cat,” Anders mutters, twitching with laughter. 

“Or a monkey,” Murphy offers. “He’ll be pulling bugs outta your hair next.” 

Rollins can’t move his hands but at least the Soldier isn’t tugging off his clothes to check for other damage. The rest of the ride passes without incident but when they reach the base the Soldier pushes Rollins against the wall of the van, cock hard in his pants and pressing against Rollins’s own leg.

“Is that for me?” Rollins smiles, holds up his bandaged hands. “I don’t think this is gonna feel too good on you, buddy.” 

The Soldier frowns. 

Sexually frustrated angels of death should not be this endearing. Rollins stands, taking the asset’s hand and leading him out of the vehicle. “Here,” he instructs, leaning against the side of the van. “Unzip your fly.” He struggles to lower his own pants, and when the Soldier is free, red and dripping, he guides the man’s cock between his thighs. 

The asset gasps, twitching from the heat, the feel of Rollins’s legs around his cock, and he jolts into him, metal arm braced against the van over Rollins’s shoulder, but he is otherwise still, clueless. Rollins has to place his hands on the asset’s hips and nudge him forward, then back, before he understands to thrust. 

The Soldier’s always been quick to grasp a lesson. He can’t seem to _stop_ thrusting, panting and shaking and desperately fucking Rollins’s thighs. His own legs threaten to give out, body used to pain but unaccustomed to handling pleasure, and his arm slips until the cold metal is lying across Rollins’s throat, pressing into it with each buck of his hips. 

Rollins makes a choked, involuntary sound, and the Soldier manages to raise his head. It seems to take a moment for him to understand the connection between the placement of his arm and the noises, but once he grasps it he doesn’t move. He presses harder, forcing air in a grunt from Rollins’s lips, and just like that he’s shooting off with all the kick of his favored rifle, slumping into Rollins’s chest. 

Still catching his own breath, Rollins watch as the Soldier straightens. A memory of a smile tugs at the Soldier’s lips and his metal hand is reaching up, patting on Rollins’s head once before his hands drop down, slipping the both of them back into their pants. Rollins starts toward the showers—his thighs are coated in the Soldier’s seed—but the Soldier’s hand clamps onto his and he is made to accompany as the Soldier delivers his report to Pierce.

All in all, he’s had much worse days.

*

The Soldier assumes he has been dreaming. 

He is unaware of what constitutes dreaming; he only knows that he does it. He is sure of this because sometimes, when he remembers things wrongly and thinks he is more than HYDRA’s tool, he is told he has been dreaming. He remembers being given a person, a man all of his own, the way he is allowed his own rifle. But weapons cannot own people, so it must be a dream. 

And then the Soldier is introduced to his team and the man is there. 

He recognizes the scar that tugs at the man’s mouth. He thinks of iron and charcoal dust and those sensations must also have come from this man, because why else would he think of them? Heat runs through the Soldier; he remembers a hand in his own and he wants to take it again but he lingers back, cautious. It’s still possible that his memory is wrong. They say that happens often. If it is and he approaches the man without orders, he may be punished. The man may be removed from interaction with the Soldier. 

So he only stares until the scarred man shifts uncomfortably and the commander laughs. “Yeah, he’s yours,” the commander says, pushing the man toward the Soldier. “Now come on.” 

The Soldier’s rifle sits on his right during the flight and the scarred man sits at his left. The Soldier cannot look away: he feels as if the man will vanish if he does, although that makes no sense. The Soldier doesn’t understand how he can own a person. He has only ever been subservient to them before. Perhaps the man is not really a person. The Soldier is tempted to reach out and split the skin down the scar, peel it back and see if it’s a human beneath. 

But he doesn’t. There is a mission and he must keep focus. If need be, the Soldier can strip and study his new possession after he has completed his objective. He does run his right hand over the scar tissue, though. He likes the feel beneath his fingers, likes the identifier that lets the Soldier remember even through the ice and the chair. He likes the way the man’s face goes red at his touch. 

“I thought it was chicks who dig scars,” says another of the men. It is not the commander and so the asset has no hesitation in turning his head to growl. It isn’t the words, it’s the familiarity. The scarred man is _his_ and no one else is allowed near him. 

Someone had picked up the Soldier’s rifle once, and he was not reprimanded for breaking that person’s arm. The rifle was his, the commander had said, and no one else should have been stupid enough to bother it. 

“I don’t think he likes you,” the scarred man says to the other, smiling, but the smile fades when the Soldier growls at him as well. He never had this problem with his rifle as the rifle cannot speak. 

“Hey,” says the scarred man, rubbing his hand on the Soldier’s leg. “It’s all right.” 

It is not all right but the touch is pleasant and the Soldier resolves to empty his mind of his new possession’s shortcomings until after the mission. 

Only during the mission, there is a cry of pain and the Soldier turns from his target to see the scarred man wounded, falling. 

Once the asset’s arm had malfunctioned while it held his rifle. The gun had been reduced to a heap of scrap and they’d taken it away from him to repair, forcing him to complete the mission without it, separated from his only belonging and unsure if he would ever see it again. 

The Soldier doesn’t think. He is tracking his target and then he is at the scarred man’s side. Another member of the team, the one who had spoken on the plane, runs to them, shouting inquiries about the nature of the injuries, but the Soldier shoves him back hard enough that he feels the man’s collarbone snap from the impact. 

He shields the scarred man’s body with his own, shouting wordless threats at anyone who dares approach them. There is a dawning sickness in the Soldier’s stomach, a realization that he has behaved terribly, but the anticipation of punishment only makes him cling tighter. No one will harm the scarred man to teach the Soldier a lesson. No one will take him away. He will not allow it. 

The commander puts the target down. He shouts as much as he approaches, face pale and stunned and calculating. His eyes go first to the man with the broken collarbone, then to the scarred man moaning and bleeding beneath the asset, before he looks at the asset himself. “Mission report,” the commander demands. 

“ _Mine_ ,” the Soldier snarls. It is easier to focus on his belongings than it is to dwell on how bad he just has been, so that is what the Soldier does. 

It takes a quarter of an hour for the commander to coax the Soldier into the transport to their safe house. He closes himself off in a room with the scarred man and a first aid kit. The injury is bloody but not deadly, and now that they are off of the field and the Soldier’s weight is not on him, the scarred man is livelier. 

“We should let them know I’m okay,” he says, struggling to sit up, but the Soldier is still tending to the injury and he forces the man back down. He will not heal as quickly as the Soldier, not even half as fast. He seems so fragile; the Soldier cannot help the compulsion to shove his fingers into the wound and see if the man is as delicate inside as the exterior looks. 

The scarred man howls. He looks pale, anemic. Beaten and fatigued. The Soldier thinks of iron and charcoal and he leans forward, the muzzle of his mask brushing the man’s lips. It is not satisfying. A strange memory of need lingers inside him, aching in his mouth and chest and groin. 

The asset ignores the ache until the wound is bandaged. The scarred man is back in proper working order and only then does the asset unzip his fly. 

At the sound of the zipper, the scarred man’s face looks like exhaustion and fear. “Don’t,” he says, “please, we can—”

The Soldier thinks when he was learning to be a weapon, he used to say no. He would be beaten for it. The scarred man is injured and weaker than the Soldier, so he is lenient and only slams the man’s head against the floor once. 

When the scarred man’s eyes are able to focus again, he takes the Soldier’s erection into his mouth without further complaint. 

The Soldier gasps and pants, rocking into the heat. His body remains tightly wound, pressure building. He has been insubordinate and will be punished but it is hard to think of that when his veins are coursing with the rush of not-electricity, bringing waves of not-pain. 

There are tears leaking from the scarred man’s eyes, perhaps from a lack of oxygen or from the pain of his wound. The Soldier withdraws when the pressure reaches its breaking point, spilling his release onto the man’s face. It covers the tears and it marks him as the Soldier’s. It is pleasing. 

The scarred man raises a hand to wipe at his face, but the Soldier bats it away. “Sleep,” he orders. 

“Would you let them know I’m all ri—”

“Sleep.” The metal hand rises in warning and the scarred man closes his eyes. 

The Soldier watches him, lowering the hand to stroke his hair. The man only flinches once so the Soldier does not punish. He thinks the next time he touches his mouth to the scarred man’s, he will do so without the mask. He thinks that might be preferable. 

*

The radio comes to life with a burst of static and everyone flinches. Murphy curses after, his face as white as the sling around his injury. 

“ _Nest to STRIKE, do you copy?_ ”

Rumlow glances to the ceiling. In the room over their heads, the Soldier’s barricaded himself and Rollins. If the Soldier can hear the radio, if he cares at all about the report Rumlow will give, there’s no sound of indication. But the Soldier could always move so quickly and quietly. “Copy, nest, this is STRIKE.” 

They don’t ask the mission status. Rumlow had confirmed that before they left the field with a terse snap of “Completed” over the line before he resumed coaxing the Soldier back into their van. “ _Extraction set for oh-five-hundred. Do you require accelerated assistance_?”

“Negative. Injuries are—” Rumlow thinks of Rollins bleeding on the ground and tries not to picture him bleeding out above their heads. His teeth grind. “Injuries are minor and sustained.” 

“ _Roger. Nature of injuries_?”

“Abdominal stab wound to SIC.” Rumlow closes his eyes. “Fractured right collarbone on rookie. Asset uninjured. Extraction confirmed for oh-five-hundred. Over.” 

“ _Roger, STRIKE. Over and out._ ”

Another blast of static, then silence. Anders is the first to break it. “You didn’t tell them about the asset.” 

“I don’t plan to.” Rumlow slumps forward in his chair, fingertips rubbing in harsh circles against his temples. His body is all pins and needles and though he’d only sat down when the radio crackled, he shoves away from the table and stands upright, pacing. “The mission was successful. We’re gonna fix this. They don’t need to know.” 

“They might have an idea to help,” Anders argues. She’s still sitting, arms wrapped tight around herself, shooting glances at the ceiling every other minute. 

“Yeah, they would. And it would be shooting Rollins.” Anything that compromises the asset’s efficiency is to be immediately terminated. There are rumors that COs have been killed for giving the asset _candy,_ for Christ’s sake, let alone distracting him from completing a mission. Best case scenario, they’d force the asset to snap Rollins’s neck. Worst case scenario, they’d order Rumlow to be the one to put him down, to make a point to the asset about obedience on missions. “We’ll fix it before extraction.” 

“How do we know Rollins hasn’t bled out?” Murphy asks and flinches, with a hiss of pain, when Rumlow slams his fists on the table. 

“Because I _know_.” Because Rollins is the closest friend Rumlow’s ever had, because this shit is Rumlow’s fault to begin with for making a report on the asset’s arousal. Rollins isn’t dead. He can’t be. He _won’t_ be, no matter what Rumlow has to do to dig them out of this clusterfuck. 

There’s an idea forming in his mind. It’s not a glimmer of hope; it’s more like light glinting off a vial of poison. But it’s the best he’s got. 

“Sir?” Anders rocks forward a little in her seat, her arms still clinging around her sides. “If we’re going to fix this before extraction, we need something. Now.” 

“I _have_ something.” His jaw clenches, tension threatening to split him in two. “But I’d have to do it alone. I can’t ask it of you.” STRIKE is the closest Rumlow has to a family. They may be bound by the blood of their targets rather than any substance that flows through their veins, but they’re his. Whatever’s happening to Rollins up there is already more than he can bear. 

“We’ll do anything for Jack,” Murphy says, and Anders is nodding her agreement. 

When Rumlow knocks on the door, there’s a long and godawful stretch of silence. He envisions Rollins cold and drained of blood on the floor with the Winter Soldier cradling the body. Or worse. He can’t stop himself from wondering if the Soldier would mind the difference between a warm body and a cold one, and he’s about to break the door down when there’s a rasping voice from the other side. “Go away.” 

“Soldier.” Rumlow keeps his own voice steady, calm. Like it’s a foregone conclusion that the Soldier will behave. “Open the door.” 

Another stretch of the quiet and just as Rumlow’s beginning to panic, the door creaks open. 

The Soldier is out of the doorway before Rumlow can even step inside, standing at the center of the room. He’s between Rumlow and Rollins, who is sitting, reclining against the far wall, pale and marred with the Soldier’s drying seed—Rumlow’s stomach churns—but upright, breathing. Rumlow struggles to hold in his sigh of relief. 

“He’s mine,” says the Soldier. There is no defiance in his eyes; he simply states it as a fact. 

“I know. But you can’t let that interfere with your mission.” 

“He is mine. He was damaged. No one else can touch him.” He speaks like a machine and a spoiled little boy at the same time. Like the hairs on the back of Rumlow’s neck weren’t already up. 

“No one wants to take him from you, Soldier. We want to help maintain your possessions, that’s all.” Rumlow swallows though his throat is dry, trying to smile. 

“He is mine,” the Soldier repeats. His eyes are cold and dead. 

“What if we were all yours?” 

The asset tilts his head, uncomprehending. 

“The entire team. Me, Rollins, all of us. We could all be yours, and then you could trust your things to care for each other on the field, couldn’t you?” 

“Brock, don’t—” Rollins begins, but the Soldier cuts him off with a snarl. 

“ _Be quiet_.”

“Shut up,” Rumlow says at exactly the same time. “That’s an order.” 

There’s a sound behind the Soldier’s muzzle, something eerily like a laugh, but he’s tensing up all over. “You cannot be mine,” he says. “You are the commander.” 

“On the field, I can’t.” Rumlow shrugs. He tries to make himself as open and reliable as he possibly can. “Now? I’m yours. You can do whatever you want.” 

A shake of the head. “You are the commander.” 

Rumlow drops to his knees, gaze on the floor. “I’m all yours, Soldier.” 

The seconds tick by in silence. Rumlow anticipates a blow, a killing strike. At the very least, an order to vacate. But the Soldier is kneeling down before him, his eyes somehow both so empty and so curious, and his hands are raising, unhooking the mask from his face. “Mine?” 

Rumlow nods. The Soldier’s lips press against his, clumsy and inexperienced, and it might be hot if Rumlow couldn’t see Rollins’s stained face past the Soldier’s head. If it were happening in any other situation. The Soldier’s hands grip hard on Rumlow’s skull as his tongue probes deeper into the commander’s mouth, almost frantic. Like he’s searching for something. 

And he seems to find it when he sinks his teeth in Rumlow’s lip. 

Rumlow holds in a flinch, mouth flooded with metallic, salty liquid. The Soldier sucks eagerly at the wound like he’s discovered ambrosia and when he pulls away, blood smeared around his own mouth, his eyes are black with lust. 

“Mine,” he repeats. Despite the flush on his face and the tent in his pants, he still sounds hesitant, like he’s waiting for the other shoe to drop. 

“All yours,” Rumlow assures him, leaning forward until he’s down on all fours. 

The Soldier tugs Rumlow’s pants down from his hips, then waits. There is no order to stop, no reprimand. His hand, metal and freezing, ghosts up Rumlow’s thigh. Rumlow doesn’t flinch. The Soldier shoves two rigid fingers in with no preparation, not even a bit of spit, and Rumlow chokes on a scream, nails digging into the filthy floorboards, but he doesn’t move or speak. 

The fingers withdraw just as quickly and for a second, Rumlow dares to hope the Soldier’s exploration is over. But then the metal fist swings around and slams into his mouth. Bloody drool’s splattering on the floor and the Soldier scoops it up. Rumlow hears a zipper, hears the sound of wet on flesh, and then the Soldier is forcing himself in and all Rumlow can hear is his own pulse hammering in his ears. 

It feels like he’s being split apart, like a wire brush is dragging against his insides. He doesn’t know if this is the Soldier’s payback for decades of brainwashing and electroshock. He doesn’t know if the Soldier’s unaware or uncaring of how to make sex pleasant for the person receiving. All Rumlow know is that every thrust is like a stab and he has to keep his head up, has to meet Rollins’s eyes, because all of this is his damn fault and _fuck_ , what other horrors has Rollins been subjected to? 

There’s blood splattering on the floor again when the Soldier pulls out, blood and come. Only then does Rumlow let himself slump onto the floor and the Soldier strokes his hair, a quiet hum of contentment in his throat. That fades as soon as there’s another knock on the door; the Soldier’s eyes go cold and dead again and he returns to the growling. 

“No, don’t.” Rumlow manages not to cry out as he sits up. “That’s Anders. You know Anders. She’s yours too now, all right?” 

The Soldier considers. He opens the door and Rumlow wants more than anything to look away, but he can’t. 

By the time extraction arrives, Rollins has managed to wash off his face, and that places him leaps and bounds ahead of everyone besides the asset. Rumlow can’t walk with anything but a slow, wide shuffle. Anders is pale and won’t meet anyone’s eyes. Murphy is doubled over onto himself, greatly favoring his injured shoulder. 

The Soldier’s mask is back on, his eyes sparkling with an affectionate curiosity, and he assists each of them up into the van. Once they are in the vehicle, the Soldier lines them all up along one bench, with his rifle nearest to the door. 

“Mine,” he says brightly, and everyone gives a weary nod.

**Author's Note:**

> The title is taken from the lyrics of Portishead's song ["All Mine."](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=vozNQX6Ye1A)
> 
> The Soldier remembers Steve tasting of iron because one of Steve's medical conditions was pernicious anemia. Up until 1928, the only treatment for this condition was to eat half a pound of raw liver or drink over a pint of raw liver juice each day. After 1928 an extract was developed that allowed the afflicted to drink only half of that amount.
> 
> This is the second story of mine containing the STRIKE team member Anders (the other being International House of Stockholm). She is an original character, but she is not of my creation: she is [bofurrific's](http://archiveofourown.org/users/bofurrific/pseuds/bofurrific) invention and used with her permission. The story in which she was debuted was [Brock doesn't need transphobic pieces of shit on his team.](http://orderthroughpain.tumblr.com/post/90712441920/brock-doesnt-need-transphobic-pieces-of-shit-on)

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [Tethered and Tied](https://archiveofourown.org/works/3089648) by [bofurrific](https://archiveofourown.org/users/bofurrific/pseuds/bofurrific)




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